


Decaying Roses

by PeachWord



Category: White Collar
Genre: Blood, Depression, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-25 07:01:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9808394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachWord/pseuds/PeachWord
Summary: Neal is dealing with severe depression. Warning; first chapter deals with attempted suicide.





	1. Chapter 1

THE BLOOD RAN FROM THE SLITS, molten red, hot, steady. His arms were extended in a perfect horizontal way. As more life drained from the wounds, they steadily curled, and finally hung limp over the once pristine porcelain tub.

His body grew weak, just as he had hoped. He put more of his weight against the tub, leaning against it to support it. And then he couldn’t control anything. His right hip leaned and then he was on his side, and then his back was against the tub. His bloodied wrist laid across his chest, the other against the wooden floor like a ton of stone.

When his fingers wouldn’t move, he knew this was it.

His eyes stayed open longer than he wanted them to.

He couldn’t fucking believe the last thing he would see on this Earth would be Peter’s shoes.

 

 

 

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep._

His eyelids opened slowly. They shifted right; a heart monitor machine. They shifted left; a blue curtain. They shifted down; gauze around his wrists.

Hot tears came, clouding his drowsy eyesight. Warm salt slid down his cheeks, he was so sure the sheets were soaked wet now.

“Neal?”

Peter’s voice.

“Neal?”

“W-wh-what?” he managed to whisper.

“I’m getting a doctor.”

And then Peter was gone.

He had strength again, he noticed, lifting his arm. He reached for the gauze and tore it. He reached for his other arm, tore it. The scars were bright and ugly and sore. The skin around the stitches was hot and stung when he touched them.

“Open!” he said as he scratched at it.

Poof!

Blood came again; thick and hotter than he remembered. He kept scratching, removing the remaining stitches. Blood dripped over his other wrist and he proceeded to repeat.

“The doctor will be here in a min—”

And then Peter’s large hand was wrapped around his wrist, pulling his fingernails away from his skin.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

Neal didn’t answer him.

“Jesus Christ!” Peter yelled, grabbing the fallen gauze. He pressed hard against Neal’s wrist, so hard that it actually hurt.

Neal started sobbing again, louder.

“Why? Why, Neal? Why are you trying to kill yourself?” Peter whispered through his own tears.

And then Neal stopped sobbing, stopped crying. He turned his head, looked up, and said, “Why didn’t you let me?”


	2. Chapter 2

THE HEART MONITOR was still there, working.

The blue curtain was still there, closed.

The gauze was also still there; now completely white.

However, two things had changed.

His wrists were in restraints. He couldn’t move them a fucking inch.

And Peter was gone.

_You’re not fucking important enough, Neal. He has better things to do._

“Hello, Neal,” a man said. He was a tall order, almost 6’5, with graying hair and small pouch in his midsection. “I’m Doctor Bard.”

Neal studied the man, up and down slowly.

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

Neal chuckled.

Dr. Bard clicked his pen and jotted something down in his file.

“I’m a psychologist. Would you be interested in talking?”

Neal chuckled again.

Dr. Bard nodded. “I’ll let you in a on a little secret. You talk to me a little bit, we see where it goes. If it goes well, they put looser restraints on you. You don’t talk, they will keep those on.”

A pause followed.

“I slit my wrists, okay?”

Dr. Bard nodded and sat in the chair next to the bed. He took out his notepad, rested it against his crossed leg, and clicked his pen. “Why?”

“For fun.”

Dr. Bard nodded again. Wrote something down again. “Any other reason?”

“Because, _Doctor,_ I wanted to kill myself. Duh. You’re supposedly a smart man, you couldn’t figure that out?”

“It’s not my job to figure things out. My job is to listen. Why did you want to kill yourself?”

Neal turned his head, away from the older gentleman. He stared at the blue curtain, so much goddamn blue in there.

“Neal?”

“It’s all just so fucked up.”

“What is?”

Neal sighed. He really wished his wrists weren’t restrained. They sure could have come in handy to wipe away his falling tears. “Everything.”

“Tell me about it.”

Neal tilted his head and did the best he could at wiping his cheek against his shoulder. “I really don’t want to.”

Dr. Bard nodded. “Maybe you will later?”

“Maybe.”

Another note was scribbled: ‘Patient willing to open up. Recommend softer restraints.’

 

 

THE ROOM WAS LIGHT BROWN. The wallpaper, the carpet, the wooden furniture. It smelled like old paper and new plastic. He stared aimlessly at the dark brown stain on the carpet, near his shoes.

He didn’t want to look at the dark brown stains on the sleeves of his shirt.

“How long has Neal been depressed?” Dr. Bard asked.

Peter jerked his head up. “Uh, its hard to say.”

“Weeks, days, months?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t know he was depressed at all.”

Dr. Bard nodded and scribbled in his file. “So this was sudden?”

“Like rain on a sunny beach day.”

Dr. Bard scribbled again.

“He was laughing yesterday, in the office,” he whispered under his breath. “There was so much blood.”

“We’re going to keep Neal for 48 more hours, its standard procedure. After that, depending on how the hold goes, I’m going to recommend he be released—”

“He just tried to kill himself.”

Dr. Bard nodded. “I understand. If you’d like for him to be transferred to a psychiatric facility—”

“Is that really necessary?”

“I don’t think so. In my medical opinion, Neal is depressed. He had a weak moment and slipped. I don’t think he’s violent and I don’t think he will do it again if he gets the proper treatment. A psychiatric facility would be an extreme unless something in the next 48 hours deems it as not.”

“Okay,” Peter said, shifting in his chair, “so he’ll just be released in two day?”

“Well, I recommend that Neal not be alone, at least for a week. And of course therapy. We’ve been administering anti-depressants to him, though they are on the lighter said while we try and find the exact right dosage for him.”

Peter nodded. He blinked. He saw the blood. “I’ll stay with him, or he’ll stay with me at my house.”

Dr. Bard offered a soft smile. “Would you like to see him?”

Peter thought about it for a few seconds and then calmly shook his head. “No.”


	3. Chapter 3

HE STARED out the window. The parking lot was full. He watched a beat up yellow Honda circle the lot at least three times, looking for a space. He or she ended up parking way in the back.

“Hi,” Peter said. His voice was barely above a whisper. He cleared his throat. “Hi.”

Neal didn’t respond. He watched the old woman exit the Honda. She had a cane. It would take her a while to get to the entrance doors of the hospital.

“Neal?”

He looked up, unfazed Peter stood above him. He watched his brown eyes cast themselves over his body, mainly how they zeroed in on his wrists, resting against the arms of the wheelchair. The sleeves of his gown only went down so far, and so his bandages wrists were fully exposed.

“Hi.”

“Ready to go home?”

Neal ran his tongue against the inside of his bottom lip. “Sure.”

“I’m going to stay with you for a couple days. Doctor’s orders.”

Neal’s eyes traveled up. He stared at Peter but said nothing.

“Or, you can come back to Brooklyn with me if you prefer that.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

Peter nodded. “Of course not, but the doctor said—”

“Yea, yea. I get it, I’m your problem.”

Peter sighed. He dragged the chair against the wall closer to the window and sat. “You’re not my problem, Neal. You’re not a problem at all.”

“Guess I’m not the only con man in the room anymore.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re smarter than that, Peter.”

“Why are you so angry?”

“Because I’m not supposed to be here.”

“What do you mean? Here, in this hospital?”

Neal chuckled. He ran his hand over his face. “No, that’s not what I mean.”

Peter licked his lips, watched as Neal focused on the parking lot outside the window, and said nothing in response.

 

 

PETER SAT THE DUFFEL BAG on the bed. “Elizabeth should be home in a few hours. Do you want to watch a movie or something?”

Neal sat on the bed, next to his bag. “I just want to be alone.”

Peter nodded but did not leave. He opened his mouth but said nothing. After a long minute of hesitation, he spoke. “I . . . I can’t leave you alone.”

“What if I have to go to the bathroom?”

Peter felt his cheeks turn hot and pink. “You have to leave the door open.”

Neal chuckled and nodded. “Of course.”

Another long minute passed.

“So you’re really not going to leave me alone, not even for a minute?”

Peter shook his head. “I can’t, not for a few days.”

“I’m not going to kill myself in your house, Peter. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Peter ran his hand over his face. “See, that’s the problem, Neal. You talk about not killing yourself in my house, but it sounds as though you would do it if you weren’t in my house.”

Neal didn’t respond.

“You can talk to me,” Peter said.

Neal nodded but kept his attention on the wooden floor beneath his feet. His focus soon wandered to his wrists, to the gauze. “I really am tired.” He pushed the bag to the floor and laid down on his side. He  closed his eyes, knowing Peter was not going to take his off of him.


End file.
